


Splash of Color

by commodorecliche



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Cutesy, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gift Exchange, Gift Fic, Improper use of paint rollers tbh, JeanMarco Gift Exchange, Kissing, Living Together, M/M, One Shot, Romance, moving to a new place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 16:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8997643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: Painting your apartment isn’t really supposed to be a fun activity - but damn if Jean's going to let that stop him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [randomus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomus/gifts).



> This is for the always wonderful encyclopediaidiotica who wanted to see Jean and Marco bored and trying to make something dull into something fun. I hope this is somewhat of what you were hoping to see! 
> 
> Please forgive any weird typos/errors/mistakes. This fic was revised and edited but hey, we all miss stuff.

 

There’s a niggling, nagging little voice in everyone’s head that seems to exist for the sole purpose of reminding us of all the good advice we’ve ignored in our lives. Advice like  _ “you should have just gotten over instead of trying to pass all those other cars, then you wouldn’t have missed your exit” _ , and  _ “why did you think putting Dawn in the dishwasher would be okay???” _

And right now, the niggling voice in the back of Jean’s head is telling him  _ “Goddamnit, I _ **_told you_ ** _ to just hire movers.”  _

But Jean hadn’t listened, opting instead to believe Marco when he had said that it would be “a piece of cake”. 

It was  _ not _ , in fact, a piece of cake. A bed, two nightstands, two dressers, a couch, a coffee table, and a TV doesn’t  _ sound  _ like a lot of things to move, but when it’s just you and your boyfriend, and you’re only halfway up a flight of stairs with another flight and a half to go, somehow that dresser starts to feel a hell of a lot heavier. And that’s not even taking into account all the miscellaneous bullshit and boxes, that are undoubtedly filled with his boyfriend’s heavy-ass books or Jimmy Hoffa’s body, that still have to get hauled up those stairs. 

Those dressers, that bed, that couch, and all the other aforementioned bullshit are why Jean is now lying down, sprawled across the carpet of his and Marco’s new living room floor. His muscles ache, his he's tired, and even his head hurts a little. He's starting to feel a little bit overly-complainy, until he reminds himself that, oh yeah, he just moved all that shit because for some reason he believed it would be easier than just hiring movers. 

Jean stares blankly at the ceiling while that damn voice in his head keeps chirping, reminding him that he should’ve just sucked it up and _hired_ _movers_. 

Marco is splayed out on the floor as well - just as worn out and sore as Jean. He’s lying with his feet at Jean’s head, and Jean’s feet at his own head, also staring at the ceiling without a sound besides his own tired breathing. Jean _knows_ he's exhausted, and is sure that at least part of Marco is regretting not just having a professional do their move for them. And yet, despite all that, Marco still has the audacity to say to him:

“See? Told you we could do it.” Like it's some sort of grand "I Told You So" moment. 

“Oh my god, _barely_ ,” Jean groans, closing his eyes and breathing out a heavy breath. 

“Hey, at least it’s done,” Marco snarks back to him, giving a quick kick of his knee against Jean’s shoulder to punctuate his words. 

“Except all the unpacking and sorting and rearranging of furniture, yeah, totally.” 

Marco doesn’t say anything else, instead offering Jean a soft hum in response. Out of the corner of his eye, Jean sees Marco’s head start to move around. It lolls about on the carpet and cranes a bit to glance around the room. 

“We should paint the walls.” 

Jean doesn’t mean to - he really doesn’t - but he laughs. It wheezes from his chest, a hearty chuckle mixed with the breathlessness of his exhaustion. 

“Ah, that’s funny,” Jean starts and turns his head to look at Marco, who’s staring back at him with a perplexed expression on his face. Jean’s chuckles stop as he furrows his brow in Marco’s direction. “Oh my god, you’re serious, aren’t you?” 

Marco shrugs. 

“I dunno, I think it would look nice, don’t you?” 

“Fuck, should’ve done that when the place was empty.”

Jean ends his assertion with a light chuckle and a pat against the soles of Marco's feet. Marco doesn’t say anything else, and Jean kind of assumes that that’s the end of it. 

**::**

It was _not_ , in fact, the end of it, as Jean would later learn.

It takes a few weekends to get everything settled. They finally get the furniture arranged how they want it. The boxes are unpacked, knick-knacks placed with care on the shelves and mantles, art hung along the walls, and for  _ once _ in what feels like forever,  the two of them have a weekend where they don’t have to work. 

It’s a quiet Saturday at the apartment, finally, and Jean is deeply thankful for it. He and Marco are lounging together on the couch - Marco’s head rests in his lap, and “Die Hard” plays on idly in the background (because it’s Marco’s favorite Christmas movie, after all). Jean cards his fingers through Marco’s hair as he skims through his phone, but he can’t help but notice the way Marco keeps shifting his head around in his lap. Jean stops his movement and glances down at his boyfriend. 

“You comfortable?” He asks, and Marco gives him a brief nod. 

“Oh, yeah, quite,” Marco tells him, but his eyes don’t ever actually focus on Jean, instead continuing to dart around the room with intrigue.

“....Kay…. Cause like, you’re fidgeting… like, a lot.” 

“I feel like...maybe a light pastel color would really make this place pop… Or, or maybe some warm colors in the bedroom to make it feel more at home?” 

“Oh shit, Marco, ple-” Jean starts, ready to whine because holy shit they  _ just _ started relaxing. This is the first weekend they’ve had to just  _ chill _ , so this boy cannot possibly be bored already. 

“Jean, come  _ on _ , it’s so  _ boring _ …” Marco moans, and Jean tries not to wince at the b-word, “I mean, hell, you remember our last place…” 

Jean does remember it - it was _small_ , about half the size of where they are now, but goddamn if that piece of shit apartment didn’t have a life of it’s own and a warm sense of home. The tenant before them had painted the walls with all sorts of bright, vivacious colors, things that Jean would have never put up of his own free will. The landlord (an admittedly negligent individual) hadn’t bothered to repaint the place before he and Marco moved in, leaving the two of them with the colorful remains of the person who'd lived there before. And even Jean - who admittedly could find something to be grumpy about at will, no matter the situation - had a hard time disliking the tiny apartment’s lively interior. 

And admittedly, this new apartment’s standard eggshell-white walls are a bit of a bummer. 

Jean rests his fingers in Marco’s hair and gazes down at his boyfriend’s pleading eyes. 

With a low exhale, Jean pats his head. 

“You really wanna paint the place?” He asks frankly and is met with an enthusiastic nod. 

“It’ll be fun.” 

“I feel like our definitions of fun differ a lot…” Jean grumps, “But… if you want to, then let’s do it.” 

Marco jerks himself up to sit with an urgent "You mean it??", and a huge grin on his face as he wraps his arms around Jean’s shoulders. The hug only lasts for a moment though before Marco is pushing off of the couch and running into their laundry room. When he returns, he’s got two cans of paint in his hands, two brushes under one armpit, and two rollers on long poles under the other armpit. Jean feels his throat tighten. 

_ Not today…. Please, oh my god, let me have one day to relax.  _

“Okay, so I’ve got two main colors I thought would be good, but it’s really whichever one you like most!” Marco jiggles the paint cans in Jean’s direction, and that niggling voice in the back of his head is telling him  _ “you should’ve just done this when Marco first wanted to on move-in day” _ , and Jean hates to agree but it makes a good point. 

“Babe,” Jean starts, eyeing the supplies clutched against Marco’s body, “I will happily….. Okay, not really happily… but I will paint this entire living room with you with gusto… but I will do so...  _ tomorrow _ .” 

“Aw, but-” Marco pleads, and Jean hates to make him curb his enthusiasm, but his ass really,  _ really _   wants to stay planted on the couch today. 

Jean scoots to the edge of the couch and reaches out to take the cans of paint from Marco’s hands, setting them gently on the floor. He returns his grip to Marco’s fingertips and gives them a brief squeeze.

“Sugar. Darling. Light of my life. Please, I beg of you, just allow my ass to fuse with this couch today, as it has desperately been missing these wonderful cushions, and then we can paint tomorrow… That okay?” 

Marco pouts, and Jean  _ hates  _ when he does that cause Marco  _ knows  _ exactly  what that lower lip does to Jean’s dick. He eyes Marco’s thick lower lip, feels the distinctive twitch in his lap, and thinks a disgruntled  _ “Down boy”  _ to himself before giving Marco’s fingers another gentle squeeze. Marco grumbles, but shrugs anyway and agrees. 

“Okay. Tomorrow.” 

Jean flashes him a grin and kisses knuckles and fingertips in gratitude. 

“...I should probably buy tarps and tape anyway…” Marco admits with a quick glance around the living room.

Jean just shakes his head and yanks his boyfriend back down onto the couch to relax. 

**::**

Marco is up and out the door the next morning before Jean is really even functional. He just barely has poured himself a cup of coffee before Marco is kissing his cheek and saying he’ll be back soon with some more supplies. His coffee mug clenched between his tired fingers, it takes a full minute after Marco leaves for Jean’s brain to actually catch up to what all is happening. 

_ Painting.  _

Right. 

Jean nods to no one - just an empty gesture for himself to the living room as it basks in the early morning light - and takes a large swig of his still too hot coffee before immediately heading back into the kitchen to top it off. He figures he’s going to need the boost. 

It doesn’t take Marco long to return from the store. He’s got large tarps and plastic bags that Jean has to assume hold safety tape or other essentials. At this point, Jean is a good three mugs into his morning coffee (a hefty portion of the whole pot, to be frank), and so when Marco plops his freshly garnered supplies onto the rug and asks if Jean is ready to get started, Jean just smiles and tells him to start rolling out the tarps. 

A few weeks have passed since he and Marco first arranged the living room and it turns out that rearranging all that crap it is just as unpleasant as putting the furniture there in the first place. But together the two of them manage to get the tarps rolled out and get the furniture moved to the center of the room and draped in plastic. Their couch might not be expensive, but pastel pink is still going to look damn silly if it’s splattered all across the back of a solid black sofa. 

Jean makes sure all the art and knick-knacks are stored away safely in the kitchen. Marco is the one to pour the paint, line the corners and edges of the room with tape, and get the rollers ready. When Jean finally returns to Marco’s side, his boyfriend shoves a roller at him with an enthusiastic but expectant smile on his face. Jean takes it but stares at the wall for a minute. He might be an artist, but never in his life has he ever painted a room before. And yeah, sure, it  _ seems _ simple, but it also  _ seems _ like something Jean could very easily fuck up within a few nanoseconds. 

“You know I’ve never done this before, right?” He tells Marco and he can actually see the instantaneous moment of surprise cross his companion’s face. 

“For real?” 

“For real.” 

With a playful bump of his shoulder, Marco scoffs and steps towards the wall to demonstrate.

“So you want to do a zigzag pattern with your roller,” Marco starts, tapping the paint-covered roller against the wall and applying the first streak of color to the otherwise pristine white wall. “You just roll it down,” Marco punctuates the instruction with a downward vertical stroke of his roller, almost reaching the edge where he’s lined the protective tape. Jean doesn’t even feel bad for ogling Marco’s ass as it juts out on the downward stroke, “Then you just zig it back up,” His arms push the roller up and to the side, creating a smooth, even streak of pale pink across the wall. 

Jean supposes he should probably be paying actual attention to the instructions Marco is giving him, rather than focusing on the curve of Marco's ass or the way Marco's muscles flesh beneath his thin white teacher, but goddamnit, he's only human. And so he ogles. After Marco finishes the full swipe, he turns around to stare at Jean expectantly. 

“That make sense?” Marco asks, as if Jean had actually been paying attention. 

Jean just shrugs, feigning innocence.

“Show me one more time?”

Marco rolls his eyes in jest and turns back towards the wall with a sigh. 

“I swear, Jean.” The exasperation in his voice is playful, and Jean knows it, but it’s still fun to push Marco’s buttons once in awhile. Marco starts talking again about the motions and demonstrates another quick zigzag. Jean gives him an exaggerated (and fake) hum of understanding. 

“Ohhhh” Jean starts, getting a better grip on his roller’s pole and dragging it across the roller grid to coat it in paint. “So it’s kinda like.... this?” he starts, not giving Marco the chance to turn around before he pushes the roller against the base of Marco’s ass and quickly swipes it upwards along the curve of Marco’s back and neck. 

Marco recoils and squeals at the first cold touch of the paint, his own roller clattering to the floor from surprise, but he just doesn’t manage to move away before Jean has streaked him from ass to nape in pastel pink. The paint stands out in splotches across the back of Marco’s jeans, the pink a stark contrast to the old, faded denim. Streaks and spots line Marco’s t-shirt and even his skin where the roller had hiked up the base of his shirt. And yeah, the risk of this inciting Marco’s wrath is high, but honestly the squeal Marco let out the moment the roller touched his ass, and the subsequent higher-pitched yelp he let out at the first touch of the paint against the small of his back are well-worth the risk. Plus, they’re old clothes; Jean knows Marco isn’t going to _really_ care. 

With frantic, hurried motions, Marco recoils and spins around and is met with Jean’s giggling face; he can barely contain his smile as he chokes around his words. 

“Did…,” Jean snickers through his teeth, “Did I do it right?” 

Marco meets him with a taut smile and fiery eyes, but a strange look of calm on his face. He shakes his head. 

“No, Jean. Darling. No, you didn’t.” Marco tells him flatly, grabbing his roller off the ground from where he’d dropped it. “It’s more like,” 

And without giving Jean a moment to react, Marco swabs the roller quickly across Jean’s face, dragging it from his forehead down to his chest. Jean’s smile immediately fades and morphs into shock as his forehead, nose, chin, and pecs are coated in the sticky paint. He sputters out a quick grunt and peels his eyes back open, thankful that there doesn’t appear to be any paint in them. 

"Ahhhh, what the fuckkkkkk?!” he shouts back amidst Marco’s roaring giggles. 

“Well, you were doing it wrong!” 

The sarcasm in Marco’s voice is palpable, and Jean’s having a hard time being upset because he's always loved it when his boy gets snarky. Instead of responding, Jean opts instead to press his own roller against Marco’s chest - one splotch on the left, one on the right, leaving two messy but large pink marks across Marco’s shirt where his nipples would be. Marco hadn’t even recoiled this time, instead he'd jutted his chest out for more of Jean's attention. 

“There,” Jean hums, “how’s  _ that _ ?” 

Marco sets his roller down and tugs at the hem of his shirt to look at Jean’s artistry. 

“It’s awful - you’ll never be a painter. Here, watch the  _ master _ .” 

Marco scoops up the single paintbrush and dunks it quickly into the rolling pan to get a dab of paint on it. Without another moment, he leans in and dabs at Jean’s nipples, leaving round little circles of pastel pink on Jean’s black shirt. 

“Now  _ that’s _ how you paint nipples.” Marco tells hims with confidence as he straightens back up and admires his work. Jean scoffs and reaches out towards the paintbrush. But rather than grab it, he drags his fingers across the bristles, flicking them as he goes, and watching with satisfaction as little flecks of paint splatter across Marco’s face. 

“There we go - freckles.” 

“Bitch, the fuck, I already  _ have  _ freckles!” Marco doesn’t give Jean time to move before copying his bristle flick, sending little pink paint freckles all across Jean’s (admittedly, already pink) face. 

Jean squeals, but laughs anyway, and reaches a hand out to yank the brush away from Marco. But Marco isn’t giving in so easily. He wrenches his hand back and away from his boyfriend, flinging his free arm around Jean’s shoulders to pull him in. They tussle for a moment, both of them panting and giggling and groaning as the paint smears across their faces and clothes some more, before Marco opts for his go-to disarming tactic. With the arm around Jean’s shoulders, he yanks his partner forward, meeting his grinning lips in an open-mouth kiss. 

A soft groan hums against Marco’s lips, and he revels in the feeling of it - always so open, so willing for him. Marco closes his mouth a bit before urging it back open to usher Jean’s tongue into his mouth. Jean responds in kind - he always does - tongue urgent and willing despite their playful bickering and pastel-paint smearing. With a quiet huff through his nose, Jean squirms a bit in Marco’s grip, but allows Marco’s arm to stay slung around his shoulder. But he makes sure to get his hands planted firmly on Marco’s ribcage, fingers pressing hard into the lean lines of muscle that flow down Marco’s sides. 

Marco squeaks at the touch - that area is always a little ticklish, and Jean knows it - but the noise only fuels him more. He gives Marco another squeeze, and hears the paintbrush drop from Marco’s grip to plop onto the tarp beneath them. His hand now free, it wraps around Jean’s shoulders to join his other arm, pulling his boyfriend in tight against him as he keeps their mouths open and moving against each other’s. 

The feeling of Marco’s lips pursing, opening, closing and moving against his own, his mouth wet and warm and welcoming as it always is, starts a growl low in Jean’s throat. It purrs its way up his throat and across his tongue and against Marco’s, and Jean can practically feel the flush that rises just beneath Marco’s skin. Unthinking - and frankly, uncaring - of the paint that Marco had already applied to the wall of their living room, Jean urges Marco back with a hurried couple of steps. He presses Marco back against the wall, unconcerned about whether or not his back is pressed against a zigzag of pastel pink or not. 

But Marco doesn’t stay there for long. He quickly shifts his arms so his hands can grip Jean’s shoulders and he wrenches the two of them around, forcing Jean back against the wall with an  _ oomph _ . 

Jean cranes his head as Marco’s kisses grow deeper and more insistent. He feels the stickiness of the paint that’s on his and Marco’s faces mingling as they move against each other. It smears across his skin, across their noses as they bump, along their hands and cheeks as they touch and grab at each other. And Jean wants to care, but so long as it isn’t creeping into their mouths, he honestly can't muster up enough concern to give a shit.

Honestly, _you_ try caring about anything when you've got Marco Bodt breathing hot and heavy in front of you, his mouth against yours, your back against the wall, and we’ll see how concerned you are about fuckin' paint. 

Jean heaves a breath through his nose, lifts his hands to thread his pink and somewhat sticky fingers through Marco’s hair. He urges him closer, silently pleads for Marco to bear himself against Jean more firmly, more heavily. Jean’s fingers tighten in Marco’s hair as Marco abruptly separates their mouth and instead lowers his lips and tongue to play along Jean’s collarbone and neck. 

The first touch of his mouth on the sensitive flesh sends a jolt straight to Jean’s dick, and he uses the hand in Marco’s hair to hold him close, hoping for Marco’s lips, his teeth, his tongue to taste and mark and mar his flesh as he sees fit. 

But to Jean's disappointment, the moment doesn’t last. It's interrupted instead by Marco yanking away from Jean’s skin in a frantic rush. Marco makes a somewhat disgusted noise, and it takes about half a second for Jean to realize that Marco’s likely gotten a tongue-taste of sticky paint. Jean tries not to smile, because it’s not funny, but it’s actually  _ really _ kinda funny watching Marco spit a little and run to the bathroom to rinse his mouth out. 

Jean follows softly, stepping along the paint-splattered tarp, not really caring whether or not he steps in the myriad of pink splotches on it. Jean watches as Marco ducks his head under the faucet; he gets a few mouthfuls that he swishes and spits out, before he gets another larger one, gargles it, and spits it out. 

“Swallow any?” Jean inquires and Marco doesn’t say anything, but shakes his head ‘no’ with his head still under the faucet.

"No," Marco says with his head still in the sink, "but goddamn does that shit taste bad..." 

Marco takes one more big mouthful of water, swishes it around in his mouth, and spits it out before straightening up his back and staring at Jean in the mirror. His face is serious at first, but it softens rapidly into a smile when he sees Jean’s giggly smirk staring back at him. 

“Okay, so…” Marco starts. He turns around and reaches out for Jean’s shirt to drag him further into the bathroom, “How about maaaaybe we continue this in the shower?” 

**::**

**Author's Note:**

> Do not paint your partner with a paint roller, y'all. (Hah, just kidding..... Do it.) 
> 
> Thanks for reading! For my awesome recipient, and for all of y'all, I hope you liked it!


End file.
